The Card
by HollyC
Summary: A Christmas card brings unwanted feelings to Benton


The Card

Have you ever wanted something so badly that it made your chest ache and your throat tighten just thinking about it? Something that you can't bear to think about because the grief reaches so deep into your being that you are constantly, persistently on the verge of crying?

So you try to avoid those thoughts, yet the mere attempt to divert your mind brings back the yearning tenfold? Have you ever tried to imagine someone dead, gone forever, because to even contemplate them living and without you being able to see them, is unbearable not least in that it might bring a smidgeon of hope into your heart?

Hope: you don't want to consider hope, entertain hope. Faith and charity in abundance; hope is too much of a burden. When you have hope, you allow a door in your heart to open, you lay a path to trust. Hope and trust go hand in hand. Have you ever stopped trusting? Trusting your own heart's voice. You don't want any truck with hope, not after you've lost trust.

This is the way it is. You try not to think about her. You try hard to keep that door closed; all the weight of memory pushing against it, but it won't shut tight. Always you see that chink of light shining through- a memory-sometimes her voice, her beautiful voice so clear you turn your head expecting to see her there, smiling that wistful smile that never reaches her eyes. She's so close; so real, you lift a hand, reach out fingers to feel the silkiness of her long hair. If you shut your eyes carefully enough the image will solidify, the face expand to become the whole body, older now, sure, but solid enough, flesh bone and blood enough to feel, to hold once more. You know though, that when you open your eyes, she'll be gone, that will o' the wisp. The pain will remain still; you'll look at the wood grain on the desk, study the varnish, the neatly laid out pen and pencil, the notepad, the pile of letters stacked edges flush, and the heaviness in your heart will still be there.

Real life. You have to do your best to accept it, to accept the hurting that continues, willing that each day you will think about her less. That's what others tell you; other victims, other walking wounded like you, other people with holes where their hearts used to be. They tell you...baby steps they say, every day will get better, every day you will think a little less, every day you will live more in the real world and less in the past you shared with her, each day you will smile more, until you get to the point you can get through a whole day without her ghost visiting you, without losing yourself in a memory. The nights though are harder...who has control over their dreams after all? Who can conquer the subconscious? She'll still visit you in your dreams.

So, you wait for that day to come and that night when you'll sleep easy. You wait days, you wait weeks, and the weeks turn into a month, followed by several months; and still you wait for the hurt to fade. Then a year passes and still you yearn. Another year and you wonder where she is, what she is thinking of. Does she ever think of you? Too many places remind you of her...too many objects from vacuum cleaners to snow globes...even your door key. She won't have reminders of you. She was the one who left. You are the one standing still.

Each anniversary you think of her. The day you met, the day you first kissed, first made love, the day you parted, the day you found her again, her birthday, your birthday, St Valentine's Day. And then, of course, Christmas when everyone wants to be with loved ones. Every Christmas you wonder who she is spending it with and where.

Then the longing becomes so severe you start to fantasise, you invent scenarios in your head. You are married, happy together, you have children and they have ordinary names like Joe and Kim. You kiss her every morning before leaving for work; she jiggles a baby in her arms and smells of milk.

You meet her again, in a store, at the airport, on a subway train, in the street, in a restaurant. Then you remember that happened before and look where it got you. You know it was wrong, but knowing and accepting are two different things.

You know it wasn't really love-well not for her any way. You are convinced you loved her, still love her. You think it must have been love; it hit you like a blow to the chest taking over you completely, totally consuming your thoughts, your feelings. You lost yourself in her. It was physical, it had to be real...that light-headedness, that thudding of your heart in your chest whenever you were near her, that warm feeling when you thought of her. The passion was real, the way she made you feel as though you'd lived in the shadow of another man's life before you met her. She allowed you to feel each minute of your life, made you aware of everything around you as if for the first time, from the hardness of the earth beneath your boots to the brightness of the sky above your hat. She opened your eyes to breathing, your heart to loving, your mind to joy and your whole self to the experience that is life.

Who were you before you met her? A cipher, an automaton. She created a man in you. She breathed breath into you in all ways; she gave you life.

Did she drug you? Sometimes you wonder.

Then she took it all away, with her leaving, took from you what made you alive, and left a shell. Each day you give away more of yourself to others in the hope that you will start to feel alive again and that your true self will return. She was the other half of your soul and without her; you are barely human, barely living.

No, not every day. Because life does continue and your heart still beats, your lungs still slowly fill with air in spite of all your efforts. You have friends and they help you heal, helped you heal physically at first then mentally. Soon you will heal emotionally. Soon. It's inevitable that there will be these moments when you whisper her name out loud in the hope that it will be the magic spell that makes her appear in your apartment. You only want to press your lips to hers once more, feel her eyelashes on your finger, smell her sweet scent, hear her gentle voice say your name. You want to hear her say she really did love you, she didn't lie about that, that you didn't make it all up. You want to tell her how sorry you are and hear her words of forgiveness. You want her to apologise to you and accept your own remorse. You want that last chance to prove you didn't make each other up, that it was all honest and it was all real.

But you remember too, what he told you; he told you that you won't get that chance; you never get a second chance. You were going to be the exception that proved the rule. What hubris. And you thought you had got that chance and for a while, life was perfect again. You lived that fantasy, neglected work, your friends; but it was worth it for her, to be with her.

And in spite of all that, in spite of the damage and the hurt, in spite of wanting to hate her with every spark of meanness you could create; it won't work. You can't keep it up for more than a few seconds. You try to create a monster of her in your memory, focus on the bad she did…but it won't work. You try to focus on evil…surely she was a wicked woman? But again, none of it works. You can't make yourself stop loving her any more than you can stop your heart beating, your blood pumping, your mind remembering. After all, you feel, you are a good person, and a good person can't be attracted to, can't love someone who is without goodness. Everyone has an essence of integrity and is worth redeeming, don't they? No one is beyond redemption…isn't that the message of Christmas? No one is one hundred per cent bad. She did it all because she loved you. Maybe if you meet her again, this time you will be able to take that spark of goodness in her and cherish it, give her a reason to reject her anger and her greed and her hatred, give her permission to love and be happy with you. She had something in her worth loving didn't she?

She made you happy.

Most days now, you hardly think about her. Most days you get by; bury yourself, not dwelling on the remembering, the "what ifs…?" Most days it works.

Then today…and this. You ask yourself-why after all this time? Why did she do it? All those days of waiting in hope for a message, a call, a sign…all that waiting till the hope gradually faded and you accepted she wasn't going to contact you. So why now, after all these years, all these Christmases, all that forgetting, all that water under the bridge. Why this year?

You look at the card in your hand. You know you shouldn't have opened the envelope, but how could you help it? How could you stop yourself when you recognised the handwriting? It was an impulse. When you sifted through the letters as you always do at your desk each morning, your heart skipped a beat when your eyes lit on the neat blue script. You rubbed your thumb over the stamp...Brazilian. A stamp her lips had moistened. No return address.

The tears came to your eyes before you could stop feeling. Simply addressed to Benton Fraser c/o Canadian Consulate Chicago. No zip code but got to you anyway.

When your blurred vision cleared, you opened it carefully with trembling fingers. Apprehensive; you pulled out a shop bought card, nativity scene; what countries had she passed through before posting it? Where did she buy it? She might not even be in Brazil any longer. You studied the front of the card as it moved in and out of focus before gathering resolve to open it hoping for words of love, a promise, an apology.

There: standard greeting in English. No personal message inside just a V. Not even an x for a kiss. Foolish man.

And now you lean back in your chair and closing your eyes, you gently stroke your lips with your fingers then touch them to the card. You whisper her name.

How many Christmases did you long for a card from her? And when each Christmas passed with nothing, how much did you berate yourself? She loved you, she should remember you; she loved you, how could she ever forget you? She loved you, how can anyone or anything replace you in her heart? You think these things, knowing at the same time that it is an insanity.

You loved her; she did not know what true love was. Is. She did not love you, is that so hard to believe?

She did not love you enough.

You look at the card again. The V wavers, fades in and out, like the picture of her in your mind's eye. You know, sometimes you can't get a proper focus on her face, can't really see her that clearly. You don't even have a proper real photo of her any more. You burnt all her mug shots. You don't know how long you've been sitting there frozen like that time in Fortitude Pass. Sitting there gripping a card you can't see any more, fortitude gone. You sit on your oak chair and the hurting comes back, even the physical pain of the bullet in your spine.

You let the tears flow…you have to. You have to mourn her loss. Why did she do this? What need was she fulfilling? What cruelty. After all this time, why give you hope now? There won't be answers, you know that all too well. There are only ever questions that beget more questions. You'd almost reached that tranquil place of acceptance. You'd almost put it all behind you. You were gradually getting ready to move on; your heart was finally starting to heal then this act of cruelty. Surely, she had to know you would eventually get over her. She should know that the past had to remain just there, where it belonged, buried under a thousand regrets.

Why would she do this to you? What could she gain? You'd longed so much with a fierce ache for a sign from her. You'd ached for so long you'd given up hope. And now this rekindling of a spark that should die, and you are left numb. Distraught.If this is what love is, what love does, why do we desire it? Why do we wish for it? You are better alone; she can hurt you if you don't let her in. They can't do this-send you cards, give you hope.

You try to picture her hand holding the pen, her painted fingernails, writing that letter V. You try to picture her …it's there just out of reach on the horizon of your visual memory. It's harder than it used to be, forming that image of her. She'd become idealised to you. You can still hear her voice, though, that sonorous voice. The tears stop and so you brush the back of your hand over your eyes, rub your cheekbone with the heel of your hand. You can see the card once more, now, with its contemptible message. What did she mean by it, what on earth did she mean you to think?

From somewhere you summon the resolve to do what must be done. Taking a breath, you tear the flimsy card in half, then half again. You are tearing your heart to shreds with each twist of the paper but still you continue until the pieces are the size of the stamp she kissed with her cruel lips. You scoop the confetti into the trashcan where it belongs. You even contemplate setting it alight, but you have no lighter. The grieving is almost done.

Your phone rings and startles you. Why do you feel guilty? It was a moment of weakness, that's all. Before you lift the receiver you wonder…you are right to be cautious, recalling other times, other tricks she played on you. You shrug, and answer. You are relieved to hear Ray's voice reminding you that you are late for lunch – not like you at all "Frasier" …you smile at the habitual mispronunciation. You look at the trashcan, you look back to the phone. Just a blip, that's all, a little backsliding.

You smile again – a heartfelt smile- at the puzzled tone in your friend's voice "Frasier, what's with you? Hey Frasier you still there…?"

"I'm here Ray, I'm fine, I'm on my way. Just dealing with some unfinished business...burying the past so to speak."

And as you put the phone down, you know it's true, you took the test and you passed. Everything will be just fine.


End file.
